The Fortress Infiltration
by April in Paris
Summary: Quite simply, all the ways Amy loves Sheldon.


_**AN: Fair warning: this starts canonical but does not stay there. Enjoy! Thank you in advance for your reviews.**_

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**The Fortress Infiltration**

There are times when Amy looks at him that she feels her heart breaking and not because she is sad.

Not because he is heartbreakingly handsome, although he is (those eyes! that hair! the raised eyebrow!). Nor because he has done something cruel or childish, although there are those moments, too. Her heart is breaking, imploding upon itself, with the weight of joy, the fullness of sharing such a small, cramped space in the universe with him.

Long ago, Amy built a fortress around her heart. An impenetrable wall to keep out everyone else. Because she had already learned too much about loneliness and pain. She blocked those feelings, even if the price to pay was love and inclusion. She found all of those emotions either too overwhelming or too rare (or overwhelming in their rarity), so she decided to understand them on a scientific and clinical level. She would study the true seat of all emotions, the brain, and the leave the metaphorical seat, the heart, to the heroes and heroines of the novels she loves. Because, even inside her fortress, she cannot give up her books.

Her citadel was strong and mighty. She was an island, a Chateau d'If, an island prison swimming in a sea of rationality.

But, one day, unrealized by her, the wind blew in from a new direction and he came upon the sea. She allows him to moor close to her island because she is not without a heart, she has just locked it away. She allows him to take shelter from his storms there.

And so it begins.

These are the first things she respects about him, because this is an intellectual relationship: His brain, of course. For her, as it always is, it is the brain that starts everything. It is large and full and dense. Even as a neurobiologist, parts of it are a deep mystery to her. His sense of order and precision. His articulate conversation.

However, no one, not even this rational Poseidon, is perfect. One day they decide together, with perhaps too much heat in their words, that they believe different things and so they will go their separate ways.

It is, oddly enough, his mother's voice on the phone that asks her to take him back. As she experiences the most bizarre telephone conversation in her life, she doubts if Sheldon's mother even knows what she is saying. She does not know if it is serendipity or fate or just plain coincidence, but the scientist in her knows she must figure this out. If someone is going to lose his mind over her, she needs to be there to watch.

And so it begins all over again.

But neither of them knows it yet. Neither of them comprehend the events Mary Cooper has set in motion. In a singular meteorological event, a silent, invisible tsunami has started until one day the water swells high enough that a drop makes it over the top of her fortress. She does not realize he is there, in her stronghold, until it is too late. Or not soon enough, she is never sure.

It is his inconsistent comment that makes her grasp it. He calls her a vixen, and it is a word choice incongruent with their previous conversations. She recognizes how it has become more humid inside her fortress, and, this is the most irrational thing of all, she quite likes it. She cannot help but smirk into her mug of tea.

These are the things she likes about him, for it is not yet love: His brain. His creativity. His willingness to try experiments with her, social or otherwise. That he assumes she will become a member of his group, and that he presumes she will always sit next to him. When she discovers he bakes. When she discovers he dances. That he creates games with her. That he creates videos with her. His smile. His laughter.

However, nothing, not even this satisfying warm puddle in her bastion, is perfect. He is obtuse, sometimes genuinely and sometimes purposefully. He is rude. He is obsessive compulsive. He is childish. He is selfish. One day, she decides to see if there are other bodies of water that might be more suitable (although, already, she knows it is not so).

In what will become the most bizarre date of her life, it is Sheldon himself asking her to take him back, to allow this thing, whatever it is, to become permanent.

And so it begins afresh.

But neither of them acknowledge it yet. Oh, there is a signed, stamped, notarized agreement. There is a tiara. There are bongos in the middle of the night. But they do not acknowledge the rising water.

It is when she is most angry at him that she realizes she is up to her knees in him. How dare he default on his agreement to go to Aunt Flora's birthday party! But she has to defend him to Penny, and by saying the words out loud, she comprehends that if she is going to love Sheldon Cooper (for that's what it is, what it has been) then she has to love him for exactly who he is.

These are the things she loves: His brain. The way he says "my girlfriend." The way he crosses his arms and furrows his brow at the whiteboard. The feel of his hand in hers at the movies. How horrible he is at Pictionary. When he wants her to be his partner in crime. The way he cares for her when she is sick. His smile. His laughter.

However, nothing, not even this first love, this warm bath of love, is perfect. He makes snide comments about her desire for hand-holding. He tries to use her to get tenure. His refusal to change, to grow. His absolute refusal to understand that if they are going to be this close to each other, there should be some touching involved. It is when it is made painfully clear to her that their friends think there will never be touching involved that she flees from him.

In spite of his prior refusals, it is Sheldon that comes to her, asking her to be patient, showing her that he is trying. He gives her the most bizarre and wonderful role-playing game of her life.

And so it . . . stalls?

It is not spoken of again. The die is forgotten, never mentioned. Even the words uttered by them in hushed and embarrassed excitement are swept away. But she feels the tension, and she knows he feels it, too. She knows it with every biting word he says.

Only after months of shifting and sighing, does it happen. Suddenly in a storm surge, the water rises up to meet her lips. She drinks deeply of this moment. And then, miraculously, the water starts coming in weekly, like a tide. To her, to her lips, satiating her thirst.

And so it starts.

These are the things she is swimming in: His brain, especially the new feverish aspects. The way he says "May I . . .?" The feel of his lips. The feel of his hand in her hair. The feel of his face so close to hers, his breath on her neck. The feel of his arms beneath her hands. The warmth of his tongue. The look in his eyes. The obvious-but-never-mentioned arousal pressing against her. His smile, especially the new one he gives when he crosses the room to kiss her. His laughter, which seems fuller now.

However, no where, not even this pool of desire is perfect. He still will not tell her how he feels. She is not certain he even knows how he feels. Is he refusing to feel? Is he refusing to love her back? He is rude, selfish, egotistical. She thinks, briefly, that maybe she should move away, that maybe it's called drowning for a reason, because it leads to death.

Halloween is a bizarre holiday, really, so it is appropriate, perhaps, that he comes to her then. Across the room, across the dance floor, across the divide. It is Sheldon, finally Sheldon, asking her to stay, asking her to be with him, truly be with him, telling her that he loves her.

And so it emerges.

It is new and scary and glorious. It moves quickly. She does not point it out to him, because he is so frightened of change. But Sheldon starts to change. Not because she pushes him to do so, but because it seems he wants to change. She notices a new calmness to him, a new tenderness. This calmness and tenderness seem to be for her alone, though, and she finds that delightful. It is the former Sheldon who eats Thai food with their friends every Friday night.

This is what she cherishes about her private Sheldon: His brain, and how he now thinks more often before speaking. The non-professional way he says "Dr. Fowler." His willingness to try new things. The way he seeks her smile. His need for her support. When he takes her picture. The way he tries to make it on his own. When he realizes he doesn't want to be on his own. His smile when she walks into a room. His laughter at their shared jokes.

However, not even their private world inside her fortress is perfect. Loving Sheldon, being loved by Sheldon, is not easy. For all his brilliance, he is still often clueless. He can still be a petulant child. He can still be resistant. He can still be paranoid.

Later, she learns everyone else thinks it was bizarre. But to her, to them, it was the most natural thing in the world. If they were going to be with each other in that way (and what a way it was!), then they were going to be together in every way. It was the same thing to them, sex and marriage. He washes over her and through her in waves. It is Sheldon, at long last Sheldon, hers alone in every meaning of the word. She has never been happier.

And so they are forever.

These are the things she loves (that word is not sufficient, there is not a word that is sufficient): His brain, and how she has decades to understand it. The way he says "my wife." Learning his tee shirt rotation by heart. Reading silently next to him. His bed head in the mornings. His every-other-day stubble. That he watches _Masterpiece_ with her. His milk-to-cereal golden ratio and how it really does make the best possible bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. When they have conversations in which they are both at their respective computers, on opposite ends of the room, backs to each other but minds still connecting. That he is either fully dressed or completely naked, never anywhere in between, but that he seems to impart the same level of confidence to either state. Gossiping with him before they fall asleep. That he still ends all of his emails to her with "Sincerely, Dr. Sheldon Cooper." Going to work with him in the mornings, because this means they will be arriving home at the same time, too. When Sheldon not-quite-complains about her burrowing under him at night, and she not-quite-complains back that he steals the blankets, so she must do it for warmth. That he is not just Poseidon, he is also Eros, born of the night (and sometimes the morning and rarely the afternoon and that one time immediately after work). That he assumes they will still go out every third Thursday to a restaurant of mutual choice for Date Night. His smile, which is her smile. His laughter, which is her laughter.

However, just like learning to love him, learning to live with him, learning to be his wife, is not easy either. He may be calmer and more tender, but his is still Sheldon. He can still be obtuse and childish and rude and egotistical. Perhaps because he is generally more smooth, these outbursts cut her deeper than they did before. But they are learning together, and that is the balm that soothes her and heals her. They go to each other, to ask forgiveness.

She knows that now she can tear down her fortress. She's not really using it anymore, anyway. Parts are crumbling under her love for Penny and Bernadette. Even Leonard, Howard, and Raj, in their own ways, have become ivy climbing up its side.

But she will not. If she tears it down, Sheldon might have room to expand, to extend beyond their little circular enclosure. She would miss him being so close to her, miss the way he surrounds her. Because, most of all, she loves the way he fills even the spaces between her heartbeats.

THE END


End file.
